


Anchored to You

by Linorien



Series: 007 Fest 2019 [14]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Old Gods, Other, Ritual Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien
Summary: Traditionally, 00s who reach 45 get sacrificed to an Old God. Bond's rather looking forward to it.





	Anchored to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voculae (northernMagic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernMagic/gifts).



> Voc wrote out the outline. I've simply filled in the gaps. I hope this is what you were imagining. Sorry its so late.  
> edit: Voc says they didn't write the outline. I'm now confused because it doesn't feel like me so I guess thank you to whoever I had been brainstorming with.

_ Commander James Bond, 007, _

_ We are writing to remind you that you are one year away from mandatory leave of service. Please put your affairs in order. Your date is scheduled for September 2 of next year. _

_ Bill Tanner _

Bond set the note back on his desk. Happy birthday, you’ll only see one more. 

“You got your note then,” 003 said from over Bond’s shoulder. 

Darn 00s, always needing to prove they could sneak up on one another, especially the younger ones. Younger, meaning ten or more years to live. He looked up. “Yeah. It’s a day late.”

“You should just do it yourself at the end of a mission. Fly somewhere nice and drink till it happens,” she suggested. “That’s what 009 did.”

He knew that. It was the option many double-ohs took. In his opinion, only the bravest held the terms of their contract and were sacrificed the day after their 45th birthday. He intended to be one of those few. 

Bond pinned the note up on the small corkboard he had and pulled his mission report toward him. He was actually looking forward to the date. He wasn’t suicidal. Least not any more so than any double-oh was. It was part of the job. But no. In this case, he had a certain someone he was expecting to see. 

_ Eighteen months ago _

A single shot was all it took. Only problem was the aim. It should’ve hit the man with the stolen disk. It didn’t. 

Instead it was him flying off the train, falling off the bridge. It was quite a long fall down. He blacked out when he hit the water. His last thought was that he wouldn’t even live long enough to receive the note.

To his surprise, he woke up. 

Or at least he thought he did. It was all a bit fuzzy. He seemed t obe underwater. It was murky though, not like the clear Jamacian waters he’d dove in for fun. And he could breath fine. He didn’t feel any pain either, though he could see the blood on his shirt. 

Bond wasn’t aware of what was going on. People seemed to be healing him though. Some time passed before clear memories. Green eyes. Soft wavy hair. A voice that wasn’t just one voice that insisted he call him Q. He said his true name would ruin Bond’s hearing. “And after all the hard work my people put into fixing them.”

He couldn’t trust his memories of what was next. None of it seemed real. Surely there was no reasonable way a man could make a perfect martini underwater and yet have it appear green. And then there were the gills. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them earlier.

“I can give you some too,” Q had offered. Bond had refused. “A pity. You’ll have to leave tomorrow then. There’s strict rules about permanency, not to mention the disruptions I’ve already caused in the timestreams by bringing you here. It’ll be a bloody nightmare really, but I couldn’t help myself.”

Bond’s only other memory of that place where the colours don’t make sense and the people aren’t people was of Q saying “I’ll see you again soon.”

_ Present day _

All of his after action reports since then have been incomplete. 

His report of the Cuba mission did not mention the seaweed dragging down the man who had nearly strangled him. 

His report from Prague did not mention the enemy choking on a glass of tap water that inexplicably tasted of salt and sand.

And his report of the mission to recover the experimental nukes from a Russian submarine in the arctic in no way mentioned that the submarine was ripped in two, the heavy nuke bobbed unharmed to the surface, and Bond didn’t even have to get wet. 

He couldn’t mention any of that. He wouldn’t be able to explain it when pressed. Just like he was unable to explain the sound of gently crashing waves that had been lulling him to sleep ever since his fall. Even if he was nowhere near an ocean. 

Bond spends him birthday on the beach near his home in Scotland. It would pass to the groundskeeper tomorrow. Today he enjoyed the sand between his toes, the cold water splashing his legs, and the martini in his hand. 

The next day, he dresses in his best suit, a deep blue one, and pins a gold anchor over his heart. He drives back to London and continues past MI6. He doesn’t want to listen to the condolences all day. The people who matter will get a card in the post tomorrow. Instead he goes down to the docks and watches the water rise and fall. So different from the water in Scotland, in Egypt, in Cuba, yet all connected. “Soon,” he whispers. He pulls a locket of his mothers from his pocket and lets it slide through his fingers into the water. 

When the sun dips below the horizon he drives back to MI6 and walks inside, head held high like a double-oh should. The halls were empty as he climbed the stairs to the roof. There’s a stone alter waiting for him. The other double-ohs have gathered around as silent witnesses. M holds a glass knife in her hand. 

“Let’s get this over with.”

Bond steps up to the altar and lays down. His job is done. He closes his eyes and tunes out the familiar words of the ritual. He served his country in the field, and now he would help protect it with his sacrifice. 

He feels a jolt as the knife drives through his heart. He should feel the sticky blood oozing over his chest, but he only feels the soft embrace of water. 

Bond opens his eyes and sees not the polluted London sky, but the piercing green of Q’s eyes. He feels whole and yet empty. His wounds are gone, and so is his heartbeat. Q straightens and Bond seeing a familiar gold chain swing against his chest. 

“Welcome home, James.”


End file.
